The colour has no caste no religion
Just fetterless as a crowned pigeon,
The sun never marks any division
What's red, green, black or saffron.

All the colour is a single entity,
Like the author's artistic creativity;
And upon the asleep city
The moon mirrors itself - the beauty.

The colour is a life of how to live-
Taking a role of a new leaf,
It is a sugarcoated rose you sip
How orphean! Do believe.

Money is not a verb to the colour
That a poet knows very well:
A girl of not going to parlour
She is pretty still, at cottage dwell.

A boy without a single money
Sitting below a tree looking
Unhappy and tears teeming
At its brink.
Each boy plays 'Holi' the joy
Of colours.
But the boy has no money to buy
Colours of smile.
Someone has thrown
The green colour away to him.
But he plays like others with his
Unbreaking thoughts and perceptions
In his waking mind.
He has nothing but dream colours.

Flowers bloom
unfolding soft hands and
opening the beauty to the
the eyes exhausted;
when the mortals feel hunger,
flowers feed them the essence;
even when the mortals catch the rays,
flowers feel its innocence.

Flowers can be an interior mirror
of face, heart and mind.
We are flowers, and
our beauty lies in
smiling,
sincerity and openness
to the heart.

The night full of moons, a firefly
Came flying with bright light and I
Was pursuing her all the night.

But vain, where I went along
Like fading away of nightingale song,
I saw a dancing boat's sail.

The moon was glowing more
Than the another day, the door
Of my heart caused her to sway.

The light of the firefly I followed
Made me rich beyond the dream of odd,
She was more sweeter than the cream.

The air was so gentle to the firefly
And suddenly she came to cry,
Later I knew Agnitanaya was her name.

Soul whispered, "you're in the desert,
Upon the sand you're drawing art,
Thus the night declared morning.

Now I know I was searching a fellow,
It was nothing but a dark shadow,
Although I felt her pleasure and lark.

(Agnitanaya: the daughter of fire)

The heaven's eye becomes tired
With rage,
Water endless in the sea.

Winter deflowers the tree,
Spring fills the fissures-
The process constant all year round.

Clouds take off the canopy-
Vapours make a sail
Occuring in cycles.

Leaves green and alive
Develops gray hue,
A tree never stops dreaming.

It was a winter evening, the sun had to go early.
I could hear the cry of our dear cat, his sunken eyes wished
to tell a pathetic story, steps tattered and wished to
say-''I am too exhausted to walk''.
His broken voice
reminded me the broken string of my heart that
I played oneday,
he hid the thick tears
behind the curtain of his patheic joy as the
water hides itself into the ice.
I remember
I fed him that last evening but
who knew he would run
away on a secrect way
from the sweet garden of paradise to the world of Pluto.

In the morning I did see the cat lying on the
comfortable
bed of ruthless death.
I fetched milk to drink him.
He drank unconsciously I supposed.
When I called a divine call, the cat left his last breath
Lifting his right leg as if blessed me that was
incredible but credible.
I paused for a while like a dead tree.
It seemed the air lost its way, the sky lost
its beauty,
the sun forgot to shine up, oh, how pathetic it was!

Today I can hear the sound of the ***** and the ground
they made a little room together for our dear cat,
my father digged.
I made his bed under the ground with my own hands.
But I couldn't provide a single lamp
for his dark room.
He looked like Seamus Heaney's the tollund man.

Often I dream our dear cat is alive and cheery, but
Oh, in reality he is no more.
Although he speaks a lot today
such as a silent portrait hanging on the white wall.
Ah, my heart aches!

Ujjal Mandal, India

If I lose myself in the dreamland
Where dreams are made of sand,
The real world will seem just a dream
Like a biscuit without cream.

Ujjal Mandal,  India

Blackness is the beauty
Of the night.

Life can recognise
Caste, religion and colour-
A disease of three symptoms:
Caste is engaged with skirmish,
Religion flares up with sudden
Intensity of furiousness, and
Colour creates dissociation.

None but DEATH is constant:
He never plays the role of an actor,
He never does judge on caste, religion And colour:
He believes that there is no gap
Between the palace and the hut.

When spring arrives,
A group of flowers enjoy
Their countenance and
As the day grows older
They lose their incandescent looks.
If they could know the collapse
Before the begetting,
I hope they'd remain unborn.

A child was obsessed with
Playing her dolls,
Fortuitously a wooden wife
Fell on, mother said:
'The earth is dancing',
The child took it in a wrong way,
Her body was found
After ten days under the whetted
Crown of cement made house,
The sun kissed her pale cheeks
And gave her last smile.

Today I am nameless,
but some day I'll bloom
being a flower.
I must give pleasure to eyes
tired and exhausted.

Ujjal Mandal, Ganguria, India

Keep dreaming like the river,
One day
This will lead you to the sea
With bare shores.

Ujjal Mandal, India

Pursue the beauty until
the ugliness leave you alone
and let you bloom
like a flower in the stone

Ujjal Mandal, India

Pursue the beauty until the ugliness leaves you alone
And let you bloom
like a flower in the stone

Ujjal Mandal, India
26.04.2021

Who does not love the flower?
They bloom being a mother,
Because of the purity of mind
Like the innocent lamb so kind,
And the purity of heart
Throwing off all the dirt.
O, let your heart bloom with colors
Being the flowers

Each night I say good night
to the moon,
and she comes to me in my dream
exploring her warm love,
but I can't feel her.

I am Misti--, didn't get it?
Misti(sweetness) is my name,
My grandmother gave me that
Honor, I'm too grateful.
I'm going to 8 months
This November soon,
My limbs are
Not properly working now,
As a little bird fears to fly
Into the sky, below the mountain,
I am quite like that: I can't
Hold my legs sticked to ground.
My voice is like the groaning
Of the cloud you can hear but
Not to decode the meaning.
I want to speak with definite
Sense but my tongue
Slips, it reminds my age:
I'm very delighted for having
Such a temple where mom, dad,
Grandfather, grandmother and uncles
(Mee too) all together.

O, grandfather! I'm too little to climb
On your shoulder, I want to take
Repose there.
But don't worry grandpa, very soon
I'll grow up & I'll be there.
When I'll complete my two years,
Promise me: you'd be my horse &
I'll take a ride on you.
Thinking so, much pleasure I'm
Feeling with supreme verve:
But I can't make my words way.

Dear grandpa! when I grow up,
I'll go to the field to feed you:
The cool rice with water, onion,
Green chilli and boiled potato
I'll carry all in a *** on my
Little head.
When you consume the food,
I'll be busy catching the grasshoppers then, how glad I'd be!

I know you are all worried
About my unskilled thinking,
Of course, that should be!
But you all have forgot one thing:
I'm the MUSE of my dearest uncle!

Ujjal Mandal, India

mother tongue is the
language
of ambrosia,
dip in it and sip the honey!

Ujjal Mandal, India

A poet is not born to die
He is as spirited as a butterfly,
Oh, all are poets you, he and I.

The DREAM never keeps your word
If you play with it,
A tree produces a thousand seeds
Into fruits,
Numberless lives in sleep can be stirred
At anytime.
The tree drops the mature fruits
Upon the ground,
The wind leads them to sleep and
To stand up like the newborn babies,
If the tree had a hand keeping the fruit
In the sun and not dropped it,
The seed couldn't get a new journey.
Do work honestly without any self-interest:
Believe the WORK you are doing,
Never STOP in thinking of RESULT.

Silence is so peaceful and tranquil
like the air at the top of the hill;
you can have the complacency of life
if you cut the head of arguments with a knife;
emotion is there
where the heart is free and without fear;
if the mild petal is the heart of a flower,
controversy is a huge body except power;

be the clouds in the open air
and feel the gifted life in each hour,
be the flowers heavy with nectar
and welcome the bees in summer even winter,
be the song of a nightingale
and let your burden heart sail.

Ujjal Mandal, India

Love the day, who knows this is the last sigh of the day.
Like the lifting waves in the quiet bay.

Love the mother
Do you know why?
She is a flower--
A heaven to a butterfly.